


Five Signs Geralt of Rivia is a Witcher

by annamatopia



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Fun times had by all, Gen, Magic, No beta sorry, The Witcher Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24226426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annamatopia/pseuds/annamatopia
Summary: Five signs that Geralt of Rivia is a witcher, as observed by Jaskier.“God, this is… this is so interesting, Geralt, how could you possibly keep this from me?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 107





	Five Signs Geralt of Rivia is a Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> I can't resist a good pun, lol.
> 
> If you're hankering for more witcher fic, I have a Sherlock Holmes/Witcher crossover that I'm dying for people to read because I'm actually trash.

i. _yrden_

“You fought a _striga_!” Jaskier said, practically vibrating with energy. He had a pen in one hand and his notebook propped up on his knee, and he was staring in awe at Geralt from across their campfire.

Geralt grunted and fed another stick to the flames. “Be glad you weren’t there. Nearly died.” He pulled the edge of his armor away from his neck and bared the ragged, scarred skin to the firelight.

Jaskier stared in wide-eyed fascination. “Geralt, you absolutely must give me the entire tale from beginning to end. Spare no details! Did you truly fight it until dawn to keep it from its coffin? How did you block off the crypt to keep it contained?”

“Hmm.” Geralt sighed deeply. If he didn’t give Jaskier what he wanted, there would be no rest until he did so. “Found out Ostrit had cursed Foltest, only it passed to his unborn child—”

“Stop, stop! I can’t put that into song, Geralt, I’ll wake up beheaded the next time I’m in Temeria.” Jaskier tapped his pen impatiently. “If you tell me about the fight, I will, of course, put my own artistic flair on it, make it accessible to the masses.”

“Thought you said you wanted all the details,” Geralt muttered, but he managed with herculean effort to not roll his eyes. “Fine. Ostrit was an asshole. He told me the spell he’d used, and I knew I’d have to fight it until dawn to break the curse.” He let out a deep breath; Jaskier didn’t need to know about all the potions he’d chugged just to keep going through the night. “I couldn’t kill her, Foltest wanted her back alive, so I drew her down to the crypt…” He briefly described the fight in the hall, breaking through the floor, passing out for far too long. He’d had just enough time to ward the doorway before the striga awoke.

Jaskier stopped him with a raised hand. “Sorry, warded? You aren’t a mage!”

Geralt paused. Had he ever explained the signs…? He couldn’t remember. “Not exactly. Just a few things, here and there.” He saw no reason not to demonstrate, so he did, a flick of his wrist to set _yrden_ down around him. The runes glowed briefly and made the fire spark up.

Jaskier’s mouth dropped, and he actually appeared to be struck speechless. 

“Helps with fighting wraiths and such,” Geralt said gruffly. “Slows ‘em down and keeps them corporeal. Kept the striga from getting out to wreak her havoc, anyway.”

After a moment Jaskier recovered himself and reached out to touch the closest glowing rune. “God, this is… this is so _interesting_ , Geralt, how could you _possibly_ keep this from me?” He waved his hand within the circle of _yrden_. His movements slowed ever-so-slightly, enough that Geralt could notice but Jaskier probably wouldn’t. “Incredible!”

“Please,” said Geralt, strained, “refrain from announcing this far and wide.”

“Oh!” Jaskier scribbled something in his notebook. “A _witcher secret_. Never you worry, I am perfectly capable of keeping your secrets, Geralt. Please, do go on.”

Geralt let the ward fall away and slumped over, resting his chin on his hand. “I figured, best way to keep her from getting back in the coffin before sunrise was to get in there myself. Hopped in and cast again to keep her off it. Fucking _heavy_ ,” he added, for Jaskier’s sake.

Jaskier scrawled out something else. “So this warding… it really works on more than wraiths, doesn’t it? It kept her from leaving _and_ kept you safe for the rest of the night…” He trailed off.

Geralt realized with a touch of concern that Jaskier would not let the magic go, either. “Jaskier, leave it. It’s not important,” he said somewhat desperately.

“Not important--!” Jaskier scrambled for words, then huffed and crossed one leg over the other, sitting up tall with his little notebook and his pen. “Alright, have it your way. I’m sure I’ll find some way to capture the tension of the moment. Maybe your witcher strength kept you safe… which is of course, not entirely wrong, but you know… artistic license…” 

Geralt realized after a moment that he was expected to continue. “Hmm? Oh—uh—” And he went on to describe stumbling out of the coffin into total destruction. Though it hadn’t been long until dawn, the striga had shrieked and wailed and attempted to bring the whole fucking castle down on top of them when she couldn’t get back to her shelter. There were exclamations of astonishment from Jaskier, and even more horrified gasps when Geralt described the striga digging into his neck.

“Oh my!” Jaskier was staring in unabashed awe; Geralt felt a twinge of pride, for once. “Geralt of Rivia, risking his life to save a princess from a sure and sordid demise… on death’s door himself…” Jaskier gazed dreamily into the distance. “Oh, what an extraordinary tale this will make…”

ii. _aard_

It wasn’t that Geralt kept the signs a _secret_. It was just that he reserved their use almost exclusively for fights with anything but humans. _Yrden_ did practically nothing against a round of bandits, after all. But sometimes… sometimes a little _aard_ went a long way.

Literally, in this case. Geralt cast a little _too_ strongly against the man rounding on Jaskier and sent him flying into the wall behind them. There was a sickening crack, a cry from the man as he crumpled to the ground; he did not get up.

Then after that, why not? He staggered the next two in line and sliced through them before they could get their bearings again. Another _aard_ sent the last one, the leader, reeling and breathless, until Geralt was able to cut him down.

The men had been harassing this particular village for months now. Geralt had taken care of a nest of nekkers a mile off, and when he’d come back, the alderman paid him and then _begged_ for Geralt to take care of the band as well. The village hadn’t much, he’d said, but they could scrape together a bit more coin as well as a hot meal and warm bed for him and Jaskier both. Jaskier, the bastard, latched onto this immediately.

“Geralt, please, you _must_. I am in desperate need of a bath, and I am tired of sleeping on the ground.” Jaskier had wheedled and whined until he finally broke Geralt down.

“Fine,” Geralt told the alderman. “Tell everyone to stay indoors until I say it’s clear.” The last thing he’d wanted was for anyone to get in the crossfire. Jaskier, of course, did not listen.

Now, Geralt stood in the middle of a mass of piled corpses. He turned slowly; he would need to make sure they were all burned or buried properly to prevent necrophages from turning up.

Just a few feet away, Jaskier was staring in abject horror at the man Geralt had flung into the wall. “What,” said Jaskier, with all the determination of a dog on a bone, “the hell was that?”

Geralt bent to wipe his sword on the grass in lieu of a good clean. “A job now finished,” he said mildly.

Jaskier sputtered. “You know—you know what I’m talking about, Geralt!”

Geralt gripped Jaskier by the arm and murmured, “Not now. I’ll tell you later.” He nodded to the opening doors, the villagers emerging in wonderment and hushed whispers. He knew they had seen what happened, but they would overlook any… oddities in favor of celebrating their victory. Jaskier, however, showed no such restraint.

“You know _more magic_. You have to tell me everything! Leave nothing out!” Jaskier insisted the moment they were alone in their room above the village’s tavern. At least he’d waited until they were _alone_.

Geralt gritted his teeth and bit out, “It’s not _magic_ it’s—it’s _signs_ ,” he said firmly. “Not real magic.”

Jaskier eyed him skeptically. “That sure looked like magic to me. I’ve never seen men go _flying_ like that. It truly was incredible, you know. I might have died, and you saved me!”

“Again,” Geralt muttered. “Saved you _again_ , because you should have stayed inside and you _didn’t_.”

Jaskier paid no attention and talked right over him. “—such a shame this is a big old witcher secret. Imagine what you could do! The fame you could have! Geralt, this could be a breakthrough!”

“How do you think they would truly react?” said Geralt, bitterly. “They would think me a monster with _power_. I would find nowhere to stay, no one would pay me. We would be even more outcast than we already are.”

Jaskier was already picking up his lute and strumming idly. “I can take care of that. A little _toss a coin_ here, a little _thrilling magic of the witcher, a shield against the dark_ …”

Geralt felt incredibly disinclined to explain the moral ambiguity of, say, _axii_ , and instead elected to flop back on the bed. “Please don’t.”

iii. _igni_

“Ahah!” Jaskier spun on his heel and jabbed an accusing finger in Geralt’s direction. “I knew there was no way you could light wet, green wood on fire the first try!”

Geralt froze from where he was ostensibly striking a match, caught in the act of one hand stretched out to form the sign for _igni_. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, hastily striking the match and throwing it down to disguise the already-lit fire.

Jaskier stalked around the fire to physically poke Geralt in the shoulder. “I knew there was more magic hiding in there! No one is that good at building fires, Geralt, even when you have _who knows how many years_ of experience!”

“You don’t know my fire-lighting secrets,” Geralt said, feeling a bit defensive.

“You lit that with _magic_.” Jaskier swanned back to the log he had been sitting on and produced his well-worn notebook and a stubby pencil. “This is what, number three? How many spells do you even know?”

“Not that many. It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said, “it really is.” He cleared his throat. “You have forbidden me from singing about it, but I absolutely need to know how this works.”

Truthfully, Geralt himself didn’t know how the signs worked. All he knew was that before the mutations, he had not one spark of magic. After the trials, he could throw Eskel halfway across the courtyard with a flick of his wrist and light a fire with his fingers. The signs were just a part of him; he could barely remember a time without them. “It’s just… fire. I don’t know how to explain it,” he said, floundering.

Jaskier clapped his hands together in glee. “Is it just lighting fire? Can you make a fire blast? Can you light a bunch of candles at once?”

“No, yes, and yes,” said Geralt, resigned. He straightened and faced out into the forest. Nothing in front of him would burn, probably, and he could always put it out if it went too far. Breathe in, then out, then in; on the next exhale, he twisted his palm down and out. _Igni_ fire burst around him, curling against the trees like a wave. Before anything could catch fire, he blasted a quick _aard_ to extinguish the whole thing.

When he turned back, Jaskier was staring with wide eyes, heartbeat thudding in his chest. He didn’t smell quite of fear, more of excitement and adrenaline. “Geralt—that was—” He couldn’t find the words, and instead gestured wildly.

“Yes,” Geralt said, settling down by the fire across from Jaskier. “You did ask.”

Jaskier didn’t seem to know what to say, but he collected himself after a moment. “So you can just. Set things on fire. And you’ve been doing that to our campfires ever since I’ve known you.”

“Pretty much,” Geralt admitted.

“Is _that_ why you never let me do the fire?”

“You’re much better at getting the bedrolls set up,” Geralt said, “until today, that is.” He stared pointedly at the bedrolls, still rolled up, which had not been set out while Jaskier had been snooping.

Jaskier grumbled and got back to it. “Well now that I know all your secrets, I can finish up so we can sleep.”

Jaskier did not know all of Geralt’s secrets, but Geralt certainly wasn’t going to say so.

iv. _axii_

They were in the worst sort of place—a tavern not even Jaskier could cheer up with his ballads and bawdy drinking songs. Generally he was received with a warm welcome, even if the welcome had not been extended to Geralt, but tonight yielded no enthusiasm from the audience. Jaskier wisely steered away from any songs to do with The White Wolf and focused on other miscellaneous things, songs that sank into the background as white noise to all present.

Geralt had been hoping for a dry place to spend the night, but from the riotous looks of the townsmen around him, he decided they would be better off camping in the forest. For now he hoped to at least finish his meal and ale in peace before being run out of town. Keep his head down. Besides, he knew they had given him the toughest of meat scraps, nearly gone bad, and the worst piss-poor ale he’d ever had. It wasn’t as if he was having the time of his life.

A little huddle of three men was making its way to his table in the very back of the tavern. It was obvious to Geralt that they meant to cause trouble, even if they were trying quite hard not to look like it. He could hear them tittering to each other and shoving one another forward as a spokesman.

“Shit,” he sighed. He steeled himself, forcing his grip on his ale to loosen at least a little.

“Haven’t you heard?” the obvious leader says once they’ve reached him, leering in Geralt’s general direction. “We don’ want your kind here. You’d best get out.”

“I’m the one who killed the monster that was killing your friends and family,” Geralt couldn’t help pointing out, for all the good that would do.

The man spit in Geralt’s direction. “Ye killed the monster, now get out, afore we make you.”

“Fine,” Geralt growled. He climbed to his feet, ignoring the bitter little lump in his throat and the aches in his knees, and slammed the ale down on the table with a little more force than necessary. “I’ll be on my way now.”

They didn’t get out of the way. The leader crossed his arms over his chest, and Geralt peered around him to see the whole tavern had grown hushed, every man to a one watching with beady eagle eyes to see what would happen next.

They were looking for a fight. They didn’t want him to leave unscathed.

He straightened, drawing on all his height, and rolled his shoulders back. “You don’t want to start a fight,” Geralt said, low, and passed a hand over in _axii_.

The man blinked slowly, then nodded. “You’re right, no time for a fight…” He ambled back to his seat.

Unfortunately for Geralt, _axii_ only worked on one person at a time. The man’s companions gaped wildly, then one very nearly yelled, “The witcher’s gone and worked some magic! He’s controllin’ us!” Then the whole tavern was on its feet in an uproar.

Geralt gripped the edge of the table so hard he knew his knuckles were turning white. There would be no quiet night in with his meal. “Fuck,” he muttered. Time to go.

He shouldered his way past those crowding around him to where Jaskier sat perched on a stool across the room. “Let’s go,” he growled, yanking Jaskier off the stool.

“Geralt—” Jaskier started, but he noticed the growing disturbance around them and wisely shut up.

They made it out the door mostly unmolested, just a few people who tried to get in his way. He shoved them aside and dragged Jaskier through the doorway. No one tried to follow them behind to the stable.

The stable itself was guarded, if such a thing could be said, by a burly man with shoulders like a brawler and muscles like a laborer. Geralt didn’t know if this was a regular posting or if he had been strategically placed to stop them from getting away, and he didn’t want to find out.

If he played his cards right they could get out of this unscathed. He checked behind him; no one else had come out yet. “Listen to me,” he told the man before he could get any words out, “you don’t want to cause any trouble. We should be going anyway, and you know it’s a good idea to just let us go unharmed.” Once again, passing _axii_ in front of himself.

Geralt found himself not caring if it came off too strong.

The man mumbled something unintelligible even to Geralt and drooped over before wandering into the wall.

Perhaps that had been a bit much, Geralt thought, but he quashed any feelings of guilt and shoved a suspiciously silent Jaskier into the stable. “Stay. Put,” he growled, and Jaskier stayed put with no protest whatsoever.

He saddled up Roach in record time. Cinched up the saddle, tightened the saddlebags, tied up the bedrolls and Jaskier’s bags and everything else they needed. They were the both of them light travelers. Then everything was ready to go, and he led Roach out to the little courtyard between the tavern and the next house over. Miraculously, still no one had emerged yet. “We need to go,” he told Jaskier.

“We? But Roach—“ Jaskier started, then broke off upon seeing Geralt’s face.

“She can handle both of us until we get out of here.” Geralt mounted, then held out a hand for Jaskier. When Jaskier hesitated, Geralt hissed at him and jerked him over. “Get on the fucking horse, Jaskier. We’re leaving.”

He took them far out of town, away from anywhere the townsfolk might think to search for them. Roach seemed eager to run even with an extra passenger—he let her, allowing her to spend her energy as she sees fit until she dragged down to a jaunty walk that told Geralt it was time to stop for the night.

Mutely, they set up camp. Geralt dreaded the inevitable questions about his power, the incredibly invasive lines of questioning that he had come to expect from Jaskier in regards to everything about himself.

He was not disappointed.

“What _was_ that?” Jaskier said quietly just as the fire was dying down. “What you did to those men.”

“It was fucking magic, alright?” Geralt glowered at the fire. “Whatever witchers do that looks like magic. It’s called _axii_ and it makes men and creatures do what I want. You happy now?”

“So you can just, what, control them? Read minds?” Jaskier’s voice rose in pitch, and he threw up his hands. “You never said anything about that, not once!”

“I thought you liked my ‘magic’, last time I checked!” Geralt clenched his fists and tried to tamp down on his racing thoughts. “You were so _fascinated_ by it. ‘Tell me more, Geralt, it’s so wonderful, Geralt.’ And now you’ve seen the rest of it, and it’s not so beautiful, is it?” He grit his teeth so hard he nearly bit down on his tongue. “It’s monstrous.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Jaskier shouted. His voice echoed in the clearing. “They were going to run you out, and you didn’t even fight! You just let them tell you what to do, and then you go and—and control them!”

Geralt whirled on him, feeling suddenly furious with himself. “What were you expecting? An accolade for my efforts? That’s now how this works, _Jaskier_. No one likes a witcher. No one wants us around. I’ve been stoned out of towns and chased with pitchforks, did you know? They curse the ground I walk on!”

Jaskier shrank back, his eyes wide, and his heart beat wildly in his chest. He reeked of sweat and fear. “Geralt, I—“

“I might fight monsters, but that doesn’t mean they don’t see me as one!” Geralt exploded. He could feel days—weeks—years of frantic, pent-up outrage boiling to the surface. “That’s the damn witcher secret, Jaskier. I can’t—they all fear me, in the end. It doesn’t matter what I do for them.”

Just as quickly as it came, Geralt’s anger departed, leaving him sagging and hunched. He rubbed a hand over his face and turned away. Witchers weren’t supposed to feel, he thought bitterly. They weren’t supposed to let the prejudice get to them, weren’t supposed to _want_ to be treated right by decent human beings. That was the path of a witcher. He had gotten too soft, traveling with Jaskier.

“Just… nevermind.” He dropped to the ground beside the fire and drew his knees up, resting his forehead on his arms. “Forget I said anything.”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Jaskier kept his damn mouth shut. He shuttled some more sticks to the fire, arranged his lute and personal pack, fluffed up his bedroll.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said after a time. He dug the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

Jaskier swallowed. “Geralt, I’m sorry, too. I’m not—I’m not afraid of you, and I don’t think you’re a monster.”

Geralt knew that wasn’t true, could never be true, but he let himself believe it, just for awhile.

v. _quen_

Jaskier stayed silent for far too long after that. Geralt didn’t hear one peep out of him the next day, and the day after that his chatter was limited to superficial observations of their surroundings. “—gotten a little quiet, don’t you think, Geralt? Geralt?”

Geralt came back to himself and realized he had been lost in his own head for the past short while. “What?”

“I said, it’s gotten a bit too quiet. I can’t even hear any birds!” Jaskier gestured wildly about them.

“Hm.” Geralt focused his senses outward and breathed in deeply. Nothing smelled too off, just the ordinary sorts of forest scents he had become accustomed to. Nothing strange in his admittedly impressive field of vision. But there—a whisper on the wind, a soft reply, and as the wind shifted he could suddenly smell sweat and horses and days-old dirt crusted onto filthy skin. “Shit.” 

He dismounted and shoved the reins into a startled Jaskier’s hands. “Get on, and ride if I say so. There’s someone up ahead.”

Jaskier lowered his voice to a whisper. “Geralt, tell me what’s going on. Is it a monster? Humans?”

“Likely bandits,” Geralt said shortly. His hand twitched for his sword—not yet, he told himself. There was a chance they could get through without a fight. “Like I said, if they attack, get on Roach and ride. Don’t worry about me.”

This time, at least, Jaskier mounted without argument and kept his damn mouth shut. All the better, Geralt thought, so that he could pay attention.

The more he listened, the more he realized the bandits were much closer than he had thought. If he’d been paying attention they could have gone around, avoided any confrontation at all. What a fucking shame. Still, Geralt had a faint hope of talking himself out of a fight. Sometimes he could, after all.

This proved to not be the case. The bandits didn’t even give him a chance to open his mouth before they hollered and started in. His steel made dents in them, driving them back, and for a brief moment he even forgot Jaskier was there.

Then one of them had a crossbow. Geralt barely had time to turn as he heard the tell-tale _twang_.

He felt as if he was moving through water, too slowly; he couldn’t reach Jaskier in time. The arrow was moving too fast.

He twisted his hand into _quen_ and cast as far as he could. A golden light shrouded Jaskier just as the arrow reached him—the arrow shattered on impact, and Jaskier yelped. Roach shied away with a shrill horse shriek. “Get the fuck away!” he shouted, but Roach was rearing up and Jaskier was yelling and someone was behind Geralt with a fucking sword that he had to parry away to slice the man’s side open. Then he was back in the thick of things.

It took all of his energy to keep his focus on holding the shield while the rest of his body mechanically struck out around him. He felt a dull pain in his arm, like he had been struck, but he could still move and fight and so he ignored it. Perhaps it was only seconds, maybe minutes, but it felt like years before Geralt finally cut them all down and let himself dissolve the shield. He staggered back under the sudden release of power with an exhale that made him feel as if all air had left his lungs.

“—Geralt, can you hear me? Are you alright?” Jaskier was there, gripping his arm, and Roach was crowding him. “You’re bleeding!”

Geralt shoved Jaskier off and shouldered past Roach. “Hold her,” he grunted. “We need to get away from here, _now_. I can bandage this later.” He didn’t mention that by the time later came, it would likely be half healed already. They needed to get away from this place.

They hadn’t walked for more than five minutes before Jaskier murmured, “I’m sorry. I’m not frightened of you. I promise. The other night, it was just… do you really think that about yourself?”

Geralt grunted and pretended not to understand. “Think what?”

“That you don’t deserve to be treated kindly. Don’t look at me like that, Geralt, you know it’s true and it’s written all over your face. You’ve been treated so poorly.” Jaskier frowned and pulled Roach to a halt, and Geralt had to twist around to look at him. “Is that why you never show anyone your magic?”

“It’s not magic,” Geralt muttered. He curled his fingers a little. “It’s—we call them signs. It’s the only kind of power we have, and there’s only five. You’ve seen them all now.”

“You’re not a monster just because you have—magic, or signs, or whatever.” Jaskier flexed his hands on Roach’s reins, and Geralt realized Jaskier’s heartbeat was calmer now, almost back to normal. “Warding, staggering slash shoving people into walls, fire, mind control, and what, a shield? Hardly monster material if you ask me.”

Geralt shrugged one shoulder. It was as good of an explanation as he’d ever given, though he would hardly consider _axii_ to be mind control.

“Tall, dark, and brooding, got it.” Jaskier huffed. “But—how does it work? Your shield, I mean.” He sounded genuinely curious.

“Usually put it on myself, keeps me from getting sliced up like this.” He raised his arm; sure enough, the blood had already clotted. “Don’t generally use it on other people.”

Jaskier let out a soft breath. “But you used it on me.”

“Because you were a _dumbass_ , as _usual_ , and didn’t get out of the fucking way,” Geralt snapped, but he put no heat into his words, too tired to actually start a fight. “And it’s called _quen_. _Yrden, aard, igni, axii,_ and _quen_. The witcher signs.”

“Aha!” Jaskier tugged Roach forward as he dug into his pouch. “I must write this down—ah, yes, I promised not to write any of this into song, but you know me. I can’t resist _knowing_ things.” Geralt couldn’t argue with this, so he didn’t. “But I’m sure it would make your life so much easier if I could… the populace would sing of your mighty deeds done with the power of the universe, build it up into—ah, stop that! I wouldn’t really,” Jaskier said hastily, under the focus of Geralt’s withering glare. “It’s just… you’re fascinating, Geralt, you really are.”

He really wasn’t, but… well. He let Jaskier’s rambling wash over him and decided he was too tired to care. At least the damn bard wasn’t running and crying in fear.

**Author's Note:**

> I aggressively love Geralt's jedi mind trick, okay. So sue me.


End file.
